As bags, accessories and etiquette go, I don’t have a lot. I don’t lose my sh*t when I see 107 designer bags while power walking down Oxford Street (probably on my way to pick up some more of those fetching Primark pants of mine or one of Pret’s doughy af cookies).

I don’t dream of owning a collection so big that I have to mount a Beauty and the Beast-esque ladder to reach it – you know the one they keep in the library? I’ve never really been interested in the designer hype. I mean, if I put £200 away for five months and avoided Zara, I probably could go and make it rain in Selfridges, but at this stage in my life, I would much rather spend that money on a city break or a lavish Henry VIII style banquet where we could invite all our friends over and only eat with our hands. And we would feed each other guineafowl. I would rather spend that money on a new lens or a waffle duvet cover from M&S.

On Friday I finished work early in London, caught the train home and went on a mooching spree around Brighton (I do this quite often, I’m a premature granny, remember? You can read all about being a p-ranny here). I wandered into a pottery cafe and booked a class – that’sgonna be interesting seeing as I can’t even read my own handwriting, let alone turn a jug into something Pinterest worthy.

I’ve been meaning to write up part two of my Bali travel guide for ages, so sorry I’ve been a bit crap on that front! I think I’ve just been dreading having to revisit the best holiday of my life because it just reiterates the fact that I’m not there. It just emphasises the fact that instead of being woken up in the middle of the night by 33 degree heat or wild monkeys climbing on your bed, I’m now being woken up by human night howlers. Oh yes, somehow every weekend the people of Brighton go ape sh*t down our road. This weekend a woman decided that circa two AM was a GREAT time to become a werewolf and howl at the moon for a whole 30 mins whilst proclaiming God loved her friends and wanted them to be happy. Ahem, *correction* my guess is God is up there just trying to get his solid eight hours, just like the rest of us, and would quite like you to stfu perhaps, maybe. So yeah, that happened. On another note, I’ve also accidentally invested my whole life in Love Island but that’s a whole other 2,000 word essay. Without further ado, it’s high time we got back to the peace and quiet of Bali sunsets and hatha flow. True to my word, here’s the second serving of my guide to travelling Bali in a fortnight. Better late than never, eh!

Let’s just get this very British intro done and dusted first, shall we? It is HOT. So hot in fact, you can’t walk 500 yards without thinking you’ve wet yourself due to unprecedented amounts of sweat mounting between your thigh chub. Cheers to being a woman of summer! It’s a glamorous job but someone’s got to do it.

If there’s anything this unexpected wave of oven-breath-like-heat has taught me it’s that a) I have no summer clothes and b) I have no office appropriate summer clothes. I don’t do bras *free up that nippy duo* which means introducing everyone at my work to the outline of my udders – air con I love to hate you. You drive my dandruff nuts and my make my udders shudder but my armpits sure would be clammy without you blowing a gale on them.

Want to know how to make people swear blind you’re wearing your dressing gown to a bbq IN JUNE? Wear a silky kimono, that’s how. I bought this slinky biatch before I disappeared to Bali for 2 weeks and I wore it to roam around our hotel grounds barefoot and sprawl out on the garden furniture with one hand on my brow like the real Rose Dawson. Only, instead of a pocket lumped with a 171 carat heart-shaped sapphire surrounded by diamonds, mine was more likely lumped with actual carrots, leftover from when I went to the petting zoo and climbed in with the deer to feed them. So who’s the real winner here then eh?